


Not Close Enough

by OwlEspresso



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Just One Bed, Other, Pining, Reader is self conscious because i am sorry, Self Confidence Issues, Shyness, one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: Your tiny room is practically a closet. There’s hardly any room to move outside the bed. The one bed.





	Not Close Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my tumblr which can be found [HERE!](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/post/184718198898/not-close-enoughmollymauk)

Your tiny room is practically a closet. There’s hardly any room to move outside the bed. The one bed.

Your hands tremble as you hang your coat up by the door. Several iron hooks jut out from the wall. Cold water drips onto the floor and you wince, knowing all too well that your other clothes aren’t fairing much better.

I have a spare set! Relief courses through me for a single, sweet moment until you recall how those clothes probably smell right now, coated in sickly mud. Alright, soaked it is.

The door thumps open and you duck out of the way, eyes wide as Mollymauk strolls into the room, moist coat already slung over one shoulder. His wet, white shirt clings to his lean body, and the sight is so captivating that you miss the first half of what he says.

“But tomorrow’s another day, right?” He delicately hangs his coat up, sweeping passed you and you flatten against the wall, watching his tail flicker back and forth behind him. “This is really just an old closet they shoved a bed into, huh?” He tsks, looking over the room. His incredible displeasure is painfully obvious. The chaotic nervousness in your head thrums through your pulse and makes your heartbeat in your throat. Gods, I can’t do this! “Well, fuck. We can make do with this, been in worse places.” He looks back at you and raises an eyebrow. Only then to you remember that you’re still squeezed up against the wall. Unbearable warmth fills your cheeks as you force yourself to relax. It’s fine. It’s fine.

“Yeah.” You murmur, resisting the urge to wince with each sodden step you take, water still sloshing around in your boots. Every part of you writhed in displeasure until you finally had it and kicked them off. “Do you want the bed?”

“Yes, and so do you, I imagine,” He turns away from you, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it upwards.

You hardly hear the rest of what he says, because he peels his shirt off and awful carnality twists and turns and howls inside you. His skin glistens rich lavender under the dim lamplight, tattoos a menagerie of iridescent, vibrant color that you can’t tear your eyes away from. Your knees tremble and you realize that they’re trying to kneel and let you properly worship the divine being that’s been in the room with you this whole time.

“I usually get paid for shows like these,” The saccharine coo of his voice drags your attention from his body and up to his eyes, which gleam mirthfully with joy you don’t think you’re worth witnessing. “But this one’s on the house.” The sodden shirt drops to the floor with a squelch and he sighs, bending down to pick it up, emphasizing the swell of his ass in a way that has you immediately turning away.

He picks his shirt up and also hangs it, before wiggling his hips, the tail moving with the gesture as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his slim leggings.

Only then do you realize you’ve been ogling him. Humiliation makes your ears burn and your gaze moves down the to the floor, hoping to every god that he hasn’t noticed (he definitely has). I blew it up, I fucked up. I don’t wanna be here. I wanna go to sleep, go home, be out of these awful clothes, somewhere warm and safe, years and miles away—

“You doing alright, darling?” His voice again grabs your attention, a savior from your awful train of thought. You manage to nopd, trying to desperately to ignore the fact that he’s completely naked and oh god what do I even do? Your gaze finds its home on the wall.

“Yeah. Just fine.” You assure him, too quickly, too hastily.

“Well, come in, then,” He motions for you to approach, before turning around and climbing onto the bed. You breathe a sigh of relief when he finally ducks under the covers. Hesitantly, you take another step forward, and then another. “Woah, woah, woah.” He reaches a hand up to stop you, eyes wide with alarm. You freeze, pulse jumping. “You cannot get in bed with those clothes on.”

Oh. Oh.

“I won’t make any… inappropriate advances,” He lounges back on his elbows, eyes running up and down your body in a way you can only hope is appreciative. This is terrifying. This is everything you want. You don’t even know what to do. Your cheeks are on fire and your clothes are freezing and— “You’re delectable, trust me, but it’s not a good time if only one of us enjoys it.”

Your heart beats in your throat. What are you waiting for? Just listen to him. Don’t make him frustrated. Your mouth waters and your fingers tremble as you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it above your head and just fucking praying that he likes what he sees. Your confidence wobbles and shakes as you slip your arms from your bra straps.

Don’t look up at him. Don’t even try to see his expression.

Love me, love me please.That tiny little noise in the back of your head whispers and you reach up, hanging the soaked fabric of your shirt and bra on two of the hooks. There aren’t that many. Six, which is surprising given the small size of the room, but you don’t complain and hang your clothes up to dry. He’s quiet all throughout and you don’t know if you should be grateful or terrified. Does he like what he sees? Does he want to see more?

You undo your belt and grab your waistband, shimmying out of your trousers and panties in one, bold motion. Still cold, still wet, still anxious beyond reason. You’re forced to hang both from the same hook but do it fast and finally lift your fearful gaze.

His expression is softened by the gentle lower of his eyelids, a smile curling ever so slightly at the corners of his lips. Relief warmths the depths of your being. He likes it. He likes me—no, don’t think like that. Just because he likes your body doesn’t mean he likes you for who you are.

“Okay.” You murmur. The bed creaks under your weight as you climb atop of it. His tattooed arm reaches over, pulling the covers and sheets back, revealing the stretch of his lean abdomen, the shape of his v-lines.

“You feelin’ alright, love?” He asks as I settle in.

“Mhm, I’m okay.” He drops the sheets over my bare body. As small as this room is, the blankets are admittedly nice and thick.

This is really happening, huh? No, it’s not. It’s only because there’s one ed, only because he has to be here with you. He’d act like this with anyone else. Don’t get your hopes up.

The pillows are cool and still comfortable when you press your face into them.

“You sure?” He asks a second time. There’s a deep-seated craving to just be honest with him, to spell your heart, give it to him and just watch him slam it into the ground, step on it. But you don’t. Your lips stay closed and your tongue doesn’t move. You just nod, hands grasping at the distant edge of the blanket and tugging it over yourself. “Just shy. Alright. Understandable.” Being called out like that makes you start to bristle, and you shove your face deeper into the pillow. But you know he’s right. You’re transparent. You have no right to get mad at him for stating the obvious.

Your damp hair clings to your neck and forehead.

“I’d be uncomfortable if I was in your place, too,” He speaks again, and his tone is teasing, light and airy. “Stuck in a bed with a rapscallion such as myself. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“That’s not it.” You mumble.

“It’s not?” He drawls, and it becomes agonizingly clear that he was just baiting you to get you to talk.

“No. It’s just me,” Just me. Just me and how much I like you. Just me and how much I want your love and attention even though I can’t handle it. “I’m not used to this.”

“Not used to the wonders of physical contact and intimacy? I figured as much,” Oh. That’s not nice to hear. Is it really that obvious? Disappointment and something panicked, something deep and frustrated and stinging begins to rot in your stomach. “Because you’re so shy.” He tacks on, likely realizing how his first comment sounded. “Not because of anything else.” Warm relief washes over you for the first time tonight and you manage to shut your eyes.

“Yeah,” What can you even say to that? “I just get nervous with people, especially when I get close to them, like this. It’s not your fault. It’s just me being silly.” It’s just me finally getting what I want but completely lacking the confidence and social skills to go through with it.

“No, it’s not silly,” He says and the blanket shifts, the fabric running over your back. Finally, you must the courage to turn your head and look at him. He’s on his back, now, staring at the ceiling. The lamp is on his nightstand, so he’s blocking it. But you can still notice a gentility to his expression that you haven’t seen before, the sharp angles of his face softened by exhaustion. Your rapid pulse calms. Your body eases into the plush mattress. “It’s not sully,” He repeats, quieter, somehow more affirming. “I forget that not everyone is as open and loose as I am.”

“Thanks.” You whisper.

This is nice. Throughout the time you’ve known him, your one =on-one conversations have been few and far in between, often stunted by your awkwardness. Talking like this, so exposed, is nerve wracking, but also cathartic. It pushes you to do something you’ve wanted to do but have been terrified of.

“I have a hard time talking to people sometimes, so this isn’t easy.” Provide an explanation, let him in no matter how scary it is. Talk more.

You want to, but your lips are glued shut tight. That’s alright. This is all new, still kind of scary. Baby steps.

“Well, maybe it’ll get less scary if you do it more.” He replies, turning onto his side, supporting himself on his elbow, back to me. The lamp goes out, but the moment before it does, you again catch a glimpse at the tattoos splayed across his purple skin, colors in divine twists and turns, patterns and images captivating. Then the room goes dark, only the moonlight squeezing in through the curtains remains. You force your eyes shut.

“Well, that’s enough chatting for one night.” His voice is quiet.

You were prepared for it to stop there, but the sudden feeling of fingers running through your hair causes your body to go rigid, your eyes to jolt open. Huh? What’s happening? Is he really touching me?

Your fingers curl tight into the fresh sheets, your expression frozen. It’s weird. It’s weird, but good, but I want it more. Why is he doing it?

Unconsciously, your head tilts into his hand, deep desperation surging through you as he threatens to pull it away. No, no, no! Don’t stop, don’t go. Your lips most part around that desperate, wanting plea, but you don’t let it. Don’t look desperate. Don’t make this weird. You just managed to hold a conversation with him. Don’t ruin the minimal progress you’ve made.

“G’night.” He murmurs. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He murmurs, and your eyes shut again.

“Goodnight.”

You don’t fall asleep for awhile after that. Your body stays awake, tense no matter how much you try, too aware of the presence next to you. The warmth of his body is within reach, not even a foot away. Your eyes open, shut, open again, in a cycle that lasts maybe an hour until sleep comes. It’s blank and peaceful, not plagued by licking flames of shapes squirming in the dark.


End file.
